


The Blood on Your Hands

by Lookathismoustache



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blood, Combe may be slightly ooc in the area of rationality, Gen, Kind of Dom!ferre, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lookathismoustache/pseuds/Lookathismoustache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course Combeferre has heard the stories. But he is not afraid of them, for he knows that this monster is only a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood on Your Hands

Combeferre has heard the tales. Tales told in the fading light of a shining monster with a blood red smile and chaos in his eyes. Of a thing that comes in the dead of the night, deceptive in its beauty, to quicken the beat of a heart with only the purpose of striking out the sound at the next moment. Of course Combeferre has heard the stories. But he is not afraid of them, for he knows that this monster is only a man. 

Perhaps that should make his acts all the more chilling, for it is monsters, not men, who are meant to be nightmares. But Combeferre has long known that men are capable of all of a monster's horrors and more, so it is not fear he feels upon hearing the name "Montparnasse" whispered as the moon rises and he makes his way swiftly down the road and away from the light of the Musain.

He has not told Enjolras where he is going; he would have been stopped. The Friends of the ABC try to steer clear of the likes of the Patron-Minette as much as possible. They have been mostly successful, save one incident that had entailed the gang loitering outside the café to wait for Éponine, who was inside with the results of some errand or another she had run for Marius; and another that had begun with Montparnasse leering, far too near to Jehan, and had ended with the poet trembling in rage, not moving until Montparnasse had gone, knowing better than to provoke the vicious leader.

Combeferre, of course, knows better as well. But this is not the business of the Amis - his errand is somewhat more personal, and Combeferre finds it important enough that it would be worth whatever harm might come to him, if only he could succeed, just a little bit. Which is hoping for much, but he knows he at least has to try, for there is always hope, no matter how bleak the outlook.

Turning left off of Boulevard Montparnasse, Combeferre enters the 6th Arrondissement on the street of the same name, and heads north. From the fearful whispers he'd heard in the streets, Combeferre had gathered that this was the area where the murderous young gang could be found when not out terrorizing the people or underground. Though on the surface it seemed a vain and unoriginal location of meeting for a group of youths whose leader had given himself a name identical to the area, he knew this decision was a way, in the eyes of the well-dressed youth, of claiming his territory. Besides, Combeferre could clearly see the advantages the location offered. Sufficiently far off from he universities themselves, area was still near enough to the well-off students who attended classes there. There were several entrances to the sewers, which were the preferred haunt of the Patron-Minette, as well as a convenient escape route should they ever need it. As an added bonus, the street led directly to the catacombs, and would be a convenient location for the burial of any bodies they might need to dispose of. 

It is well into the night as Combeferre makes his way down the road, but not yet near enough to dawn for all of the Patron-Minette to be out having their "fun". He had planned his trip thoroughly, patiently, as he did everything, attempting to arrive at a time when Montparnasse would be alone. He was a rational man; he knew he could not outfight four men, nor did he relish the possibility of having to fight even one.

The small alley is mercifully quiet as Combeferre leaves the road and rounds the corner. Although this means little to no opportunity for witnesses, it also means that he is right, and that the lone figure dressed in rich black fabrics, leaning agains a wall at the end of the street, is completely without his entourage. Montparnasse does not turn towards Combeferre as he enters the street. He does not acknowledge his presence in any way, only stares with uninterested eyes at the alley's opposing wall, surrounded in a haze of smoke. 

There is only one other in the alley. A crumpled form who lies so inconspicuously in the shadows that anyone else would have missed him. As it is, Combeferre's eyes land on the man almost immediately, and his heart leaps in sharp despair and fiery anger. There were few things that genuinely anger Combeferre, and this ruthless display of unnecessary violence, the trademark of the man at the end of the alley, was one of them. There were certain times wher violence was necessary, as much as Combeferre wished there didn't have to be, but violence of this manner was an egregious and unnecessary waste of human life, and to see something like this so casually exhibited boils Combeferre's blood. It takes all of the willpower he has to leave the man for the time being, as he knows he has to, and to turn his attention back to the man who is cause of this destruction.

Montparnasse is slight, with coal-black hair that falls into his eyes. Combeferre had almost forgotten how young the man looked, his unlined face betraying his age in a way his actions did not. Nearly a child still, this youth has seen and done far more than any man should have to, and he's enjoyed it more than is right. Dressed richly, as usual, in all black, he nearly fades away to become part of the shadows, only the light of his cigarette and the pale cast of his skin any indication that he is there at all. A tension sees to thrum through the young man's body even as he lounges, an indication that at any moment he could be upon you, and your life would be forfeit.

Combeferre takes cautious, calming steps as he approaches. Once he gets near, no more than three feet away, Montparnasse turns languidly in his direction. The man does not attack, and though he is relieved, Combeferre does not take this as proof of his safety. He speaks quietly, attempting to keep every part of himself soothing, non-threatening.

"Monsieur Montparnasse?" The dark-haired man's eyes narrow. "My name is Combeferre. I was hoping we could discuss some.... business, of a sort."

Montparnasse glowers, looking suspicious, but does not move, only arches a dark brow. "What business would you have here, student?" He spits the words, stepping in close to Combeferre.

Combeferre does not relent. He keeps his voice pleasant. "What business do I have here? Simply that of conversation. Would you listen?"

Montparnasse is silent. Combeferre, taking this as answer enough, continues bluntly, needing to get his message across.

"I have come to speak to you in the hopes that I can impart some wisdom, little though I have. You and yours murder innocent people, in ruthless bloodshed that I can no longer stand by and watch. Think, friend. This slaughter - you must stop." It comes pleading, far less of a threat than it could be, he watches as Montparnasse's gaze darkens nonetheless, and knows he has lost.

The glint of the razor as it suddenly presses against Combeferre's throat is reflected in Parnasse's bared teeth, too-white in the darkness of the dank back alley. With that blade Montparnasse is Paris' very own demon barber, vicious and powerful. He pins Combeferre against the wall of the alley and presses, gently, eyes glinting as blood begins to slide over the edge of the silver. He grins, and good God, Combeferre had forgotten that grin, catlike and feral, like he lives solely to bring destruction to all the world. Parnasse makes sure in this moment that he will not forget it again.

Montparnasse presses gently agains Combeferre's windpipe, but does not move his hand for the killing stroke. He only stares into the light, rational eyes of the man trapped before him with something akin to disgust. Disgust, and a little bit of offense at the thought that this man thought he could come to him, reason with him. There is no reasoning with Montparnasse. He should kill this man for even daring to try.

But still he does not move. So Combeferre presses his advantage. He is ultimately a peaceful man, but he knows very well that sometimes, violence is the only solution. And more importantly, he knows how to fight. So in the space where Montparnasse stills, Combeferre pushes with all his might, sending the razor blade flying and flipping his captor so that he is the one pressed against the wall, locked underneath Combeferre's arms. Montparnasse, for his part, grins a shark's grin as he feels a thrum of excitement flash through his gut. This revolutionary is much more interesting now that, pleading expression wiped away, he is all force and persuasion, fearsome dominance.

"If you do not change your and, there must be consequences. Know this. I cannot allow you to continue in this manner."

Combeferre presses his arm into the young man's throat, just where Parnasse had held the razor to his own. He looks at the youth and feels, more than anything, overwhelmingly sad. He locks clear blue eyes onto Montparnasse's dark ones crowds into his space, and, breathing heavily, speaks one last time.

"Please."

And he releases Montparnasse, walking slowly backwards. His heart is heavy as he first picks up the fallen razor blade, then strides over to the anonymous man who still lies on the alley floor. Bending swiftly down, Combeferre checks for a pulse. It is there, but weak. The man needs medical attention. Not looking back at Montparnasse, Combeferre gently picks the man up and heads away from the alley, towards the nearest hospital. 

Montparnasse watches him go, shaking away the throbbing in his head from where he had hit it on the stone. He stands, momentarily numb, before turning with a growl and stalking down the alley, haunted by the last look in Combeferre's eyes before he had turned away. It is a look that angers him beyond all rationality, that makes him hunger for blood.

Pity.

*************

Later that night, when the streets of Paris are at their stillest, Montparnasse slides down the alleys, a newly acquired knife glinting against his black ensemble like the reflection in a spill of oil. He's hunting, a man who owed him money but, refusing to pay up, has earned a personal visit. When he finds him, the unfortunate has not a second to scream upon waking before the steel is pressed to his Adam's apple to slide and slice through soft, vulnerable skin.

Montparnasse takes his time. He relishes in this death, in the warm, slick blood running over his knuckles. He had not previously been going to kill this man, but tonight he has a beautiful knife and an infuriating memory of light hair and sad eyes. He laughs as the man lies bleeding out, and feels again that thrilling spark in his gut, the sensation of being pressed into an alley wall, of danger and a chase. He thinks of Combeferre's pleading words, and of the glory he feels in spiting all the ideals that those words had attempted to enlighten him with. Montparnasse thrusts the anonymous body of his victim away and disappears out the window with menacing purpose. 

That man is not the last victim of the dreadful night.

Montparnasse guts the city, he grins as he goes, and the blood on his hands is all the more beautiful for the way it will also stain those of a peaceful, light-eyed revolutionary.

**Author's Note:**

> I just really loved the idea of Combeferre/Montparnasse, because they are so opposite in their ways. I couldn't get it out of my head, so I had to write it. I have no idea if Combeferre would rationally even go see Montparnasse in the first place, but here we are.


End file.
